Work Text:
Lavellan shut himself in the command room. He was calm—as calm as one could be. He glanced at the pendant in his hand.
Sorrow. Regret. Pain.
Whatever power it had possessed, only echoes remained. Powerful and loud, but harmless nonetheless. For the time being, at least.
“Take a deep breath. It’s not over yet. This is no time to break down,” he whispered to himself.
The pendant safely in his pocket, Lavellan made his way to Leliana’s quarters. If Ælf’hild was anywhere, it would be there.
And he knew his sister well. He found her talking with his spymaster. Ælf’hild stood tall, her gaze icy and her tongue sharp. She had been born to lead, but unfortunately, fate had other plans.
“Ælf’hild,” Lavellan called out.
At the sound of her brother’s voice, Ælf’hild softened. She bade Leliana farewell, subtly brushing her shoulders. Lavellan frowned; it was a conversation for another day.
The two siblings walked towards the battlements. Once alone and out of sight, he took the pendant out of his pocket.
“You found it,” she mumbled, holding onto the necklace.
“When I touched it… I felt like I’d seen it before but it’s impossible. I’ve never seen that thing ever before.”
“It’s been… so long. You forgot, da’len.”
Ælf’hild seemed to choose each of her words carefully.
“It once belonged to our mother,” she confessed.
Impossible. It could not be. Lavellan did his best to suppress his emotions and to remain as pragmatic as he could be.
“Why would the Venatori be looking for her necklace?”
“That, we don’t know yet…” Ælf’hild sighed. “Thanks to Leliana, I’ve been able to infiltrate the Venatori. They’ve been busy looking for some magical item lately. When I saw its drawing… I just knew it was mother’s.”
If it truly was her necklace…
“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“You would’ve gone all by yourself.”
“Of course I would’ve!”
Ælf’hild chuckled. Her brother was so predictable.
“I have yet to know what links the Venatori to mother… but I feel it would be… worth contacting her.”
Contacting his mother. Lavellan never thought about it. He never deemed it possible. What could she have to say to a son she left behind?
“It pains me to admit it but…” Ælf’hild began. “Dorian is probably our best bet to find her.”
She handed back the pendant before dusting off her dress. She never liked him. She hated asking him for help.
“Will you give him a chance at least?”
“You have poor taste in love, da’len,” she said, walking away. “I liked Solas better.”
Lavellan sighed. As if he needed this.
She did not mean to be… well, mean. Yet, she sounded so inconsiderate.
It was only Ælf’hild: cold, blunt, distant. A thoroughly pragmatic woman. If she was not his sister… but the question itself was nonsense. Ælf’hild meant more to her brother than anything else. After all, she was his only family.
Not wasting any time, the Inquisitor made his way down to the library. Of course, Dorian was already there. Browsing the shelves, looking for yet another book.
“Aren’t you tired from traveling?” Lavellan asked.
With a seductive look, his man turned around.
“Not if I can be of any use for my Inquisitor.”
Lavellan giggled as he left a kiss upon his lips. His Tevinter lover definitely knew how to lighten the mood.
“You’re in luck, I’ve got a mission for you,” Lavellan whispered.
“Again? Are you trying to work me to death?”
The Inquisitor had to ask it without any detour. Otherwise, he would never be able to ask. Just say the words…
“I need you to find my mother,” Lavellan bluntly said.
Dorian’s playful expression faded away.
“This isn’t any service… Are you sure that…?”
“I trust no one more than you,” he cut him off.
“Well… consider it done,” Dorian smiled. “Maybe if I had a name…”
His mother’s name… They never told him. All he knew was the nickname her sister called her.
“All I have is Mae,” Lavellan replied.
“Like Maevaris?” Dorian joked.
“My mother is not human.”
“I know, I just… never mind. I’ll try to get in contact with old friends.”
It was a joke. Lavellan got it too late.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Days passed. Dorian exchanged many letters. According to him, it was incredible how many people shared a name starting with ‘Mae’ even among slaves.
Lavellan did not lose hope. His Tevinter ally had many contacts and he could probably use some of the Inquisition’s influence, even though it was not quite popular in the Imperium.
But days turned into weeks, and the Inquisitor began to forget about the whole matter. He had to deal with Corypheus, with his threat looming over his head at any time. So many soldiers were still in the Temple of Mythal. Chaos still reigned throughout the South. The Inquisition was doing its best to restore order wherever it passed.
Thankfully, weeks did not turn into months. One evening, as the Inquisitor Lavellan had his nose buried in paperwork at his desk, expecting nothing, Dorian burst into his room.
“Mister Pavus, I’m not really in the mood for this. I still have a lot to do,” he told him without even giving him a glance.
“I’ve got some news from Minrathous,” Dorian announced with a smile. “I figured you’d want to read it with me.”
Lavellan’s heart skipped a beat. He raised his head, a broad smile spreading across his face. Without a second thought, he abandoned all his work to join Dorian by his bed.
Dorian unfolded the letter.
There was little to tell about her. The message described a mysterious middle-aged woman—an elf—from the Minrathous Circle of Magi. Powerful for an elf, for a Liberati. She seemed in great terms with her past master, Magister Triconibus.
They called her Maestitia.
At the bottom of the letter was written a warning: “Whether you seek an ally or find an enemy in her, I would advise you to proceed with caution.”
“Maestitia…” Dorian read out loud. “Well, who would’ve guessed?”
For a second, time seemed to stop. The way Dorian said her name… there was no doubt.
“You know her?”
“Yes yes, who doesn’t?” Dorian said as if it was self-evident. “She… she is highly respected within the Minrathous Circle of Magi.”
Lavellan raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
“You know, power sometimes makes people forget your pointy ears,” Dorian joked to lighten the mood.
The pointy-eared man did not laugh. And the human looked away, embarrassed.
“I’ve known her since… it feels like forever,” he sighed. “She proved herself to be one of the best mages of the Imperium. She is the first, and sole, Liberati who became Senior Enchanter at the Minrathous Circle.”
There was a shadow upon his face. What he had to say… was not easy to put into words.
“Amatus… You have to know something about the Imperium. There are some ways for slaves to free themselves, but…”
Dorian stared into his lover’s eyes… how could he confess the truth?
“To achieve so much… your mother had to… she had to…”
He could not. It was too much.
“Enough with riddles Dorian, get to the point.”
He sighed. He had no choice but to admit what he knew. What everybody else knew.
“Your mother turned out to be a slaver in order to become a Liberati. I am sorry, Inquisitor.”
Denial. Lavellan could not accept such truth.
“You don’t know that. There may be another explanation,” he insisted.
“I know my Imperium, Inquisitor.”
Dorian breathed heavily.
“And I know her.”
She had abandoned her son. Her son knew so little about her. And Dorian stood before him, claiming to know her. Dorian knew his mother. Lavellan did not.
“Did she… did she ever…?”
Dorian took his lover’s hands.
“She never talks about her,” he told him. “She is not proud of her past.”
Not speaking about it would not absolve her from her sins; perhaps she hoped she could pretend none of it had ever happened. Whatever. This news was a complete shock. The more Lavellan learned about his mother, the worse it became.
“Schedule a meeting. In the Inquisition’s name,” he asked.
Not wasting any time, the Inquisitor left the room. His mother. A slaver. It could not be. She could not.
Why would his father have any business with a slaver?
Why would she have two children outside the Imperium?
Why would she abandon her children… to go back to the Imperium?
Lavellan had to speak with his sister. She had to know. She had to know something. And so, he went to seek his sister. He asked her if she knew anything about their mother being a slaver.
“Da’len,” Ælf’hild whispered, holding his shoulders. “There are some truths you have to hear from her voice.”
“So you knew what she was up to in Tevinter,” Lavellan spat, pushing her hands away. “Why do you keep lying to me about her?”
“I had suspicions. Trust me, parents did not bother telling me either,” Ælf’hild explained. “And I am not lying to you. I’m merely omitting details.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“You sound just like her.”
She unconsciously clenched her fist. Oh, she hated that. She hated being compared to her aunt. And more than anything, she hated how right her brother was.
“I am nothing like her,” she protested.
“Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you’ll believe it,” her brother muttered.
It was always the same story. Omissions. Lies. Even from his sister, whom he loved more than anything.
“Would you come with me?”
Ælf’hild’s face hardened—she held grudges against her mother. There was no surprise. She abandoned her too.
“I’d rather not,” she said.
Lavellan understood. Besides, he knew who could come with him if not his sister.
A few days later, a meeting was scheduled. In a tavern in Orlais, Lavellan should meet his mother. He had a difficult time realizing it. He was about to meet his mother.
In front of the modest building, the Inquisitor was anxious. What would he discover once he passed that door? Maybe it would be wiser to leave. He turned to face his lover, standing next to him.
“Thank you,” Lavellan said. “For coming with me.”
Dorian’s grasp tightened around his hand.
“Everything for you, amatus.”
The two men entered the tavern. Silence. It was almost empty. A person stood near the counter.
“State your name and business.”
“Are we serious here?” Lavellan turned to look at his companion.
“Lady Mae needs to be sure you can be trusted.”
“I don’t have time for these games, I have a world to save,” Lavellan replied. “If she won’t show up… then fine!”
He prepared to leave. It was a mistake. He should never come here in the first place. He should have never looked after her. He should—
“Little one,” a voice murmured from the back of the room.
Lavellan turned around. An older woman stepped out of the shadow. Long, immaculate white hair framed a pair of piercing blue eyes—the same blue as his own.
“Mamae…”
A word that sounded so foreign to him. A word he had never spoken.
For the first time in almost fifteen years, he was an orphan no more. For the very first time, he had a mother standing before him. She was ready to open her arms to him; was she open to giving him what he truly needed?
“Mercar, you can be dismissed,” she said to the elven agent.
They bowed as they left without a word.
“Aster,” she whispered, cupping his cheeks. “Mir da’len, ir abelas.”
She spoke elvhen.
“Ma ghilas rahn. Ma lasa vir,” Lavellan said.
“Words could not be enough, dear child,” Maestitia replied.
Her smile was filled with sorrow. It was her deepest regret—gods knew how many she carried with her.
“Dirth ma, mamae.”
More than a request, it was a supplication.
Shaking her head, she brushed his forehead. As if she tried to comfort a child. Her child.
“Corypheus and his cult have to be dealt with.”
She cleverly changed the subject.
“I’ve heard you found my necklace, may I see it?”
Troubled, Lavellan took the pendant out from his pocket. His mother took it without hesitation. She studied it a few seconds.
“As I thought, it lost its power a long time ago. Thank the Maker.”
The Maker. She was Andrastian. She was not like him. She had a different culture, a different religion. All they had in common was their pointy ears.
“It helped me… convince people.”
“Mind control,” Dorian gasped. “Blood magic at its worst.”
“I did what I had to,” she defended herself. “Dorian, my sweet darling,” she greeted him, finally acknowledging his presence.
Maestitia approached him and gave him an affectionate kiss. They were close. Closer than Lavellan expected.
“You truly are the last person I expected to find in the South,” she quietly laughed. “Tilani sends you her regards.”
“Inquisitor, I may have forgotten to mention,” Dorian turned to Lavellan. “Maevaris is our common friend. She set that—”
“I do not care,” Lavellan coldly replied. “Why did you abandon me? Why did you abandon Ælf’hild?”
“You can save yourself from this pain, da—”
“Enough!” Lavellan cut her off. “I deserve to know,” he insisted, trying to keep his composure.
His mother seemed to hesitate. Perhaps she was tempted to tell a lie. Perhaps she weighed whether to manipulate her own blood. In the end, she chose to confess the painful truth.
“Because I was about to do what I know best,” she whispered, as though the words burned.
How could he not believe such regret? A voice so weak could only be sincere—could it not?
She looked him in the eye. Some truths were better kept hidden. Some secrets should be buried six feet under.
“I would’ve enslaved you,” she admitted.
It was too much to process. For a second, he wished he had never asked. Dorian massaged his shoulders as he felt the world collapse under his feet.
He could not help but imagine a life in the Imperium. To be a slave. Deprived of desire and hope. Unable to live or to think for himself.
Perhaps he would never learn to read or write. Perhaps he would have lived a life of suffering. Perhaps he would have been sacrificed in some unholy ritual.
It never happened. Pull yourself together.
Lavellan calmed himself, not really knowing why or how. Not that the news was not troubling anymore. But all of a sudden, he could endure it.
“Wh-what about the Venatori?” he stuttered. “Why were they after your necklace? What is your purpose here?”
Back to the real purpose of this meeting: the Venatori. Great way to ignore his unwanted feelings.
“That, I do not know. Unlike some,” Maestitia said, glancing at Dorian. “I never dealt with the Venatori. I suppose they have heard rumors about my necklace.”
“Who hadn’t?” Dorian bitterly mumbled.
“I didn’t,” Lavellan quickly replied.
Dorian glanced at him, visibly embarrassed. It seemed this story was well known in Minrathous. The South was now dying to hear it as well.
“Do me a favor: tell us what you’ve heard,” Maestitia asked Dorian.
“It is said, this necklace allowed you to recruit thousands of slaves, granting you Triconibus’ favors.”
“That is correct,” Maestitia admitted.
She admitted her wrongdoing so casually. How many years had passed? If she was not proud of her past, she made peace with it at least.
“Gossips pretend it is filled by blood sacrifice,” Dorian added.
“It requires too much blood for such an evil purpose,” Maestitia explained. “It is an artefact far older than I am. Never again should it be used.”
She studied her pendant. Regret… Nostalgia… Wrath. So many emotions passed on her face. Maestitia brushed the jewel as she handed it to her son.
“That is what I believe,” she said with a tender smile. “But it is yours now. Do as you wish, little one.”
Lavellan stared at the artefact. Could he be tempted to use it? Was she tempting him to use it? In any case, this pendant should never be his.
“It is your heirloom, your burden. You are free to do whatever you want with it.”
Maestitia seemed taken aback for an instant. Was it the first time someone ever gave her a choice?
“Blood magic is not bad per se, but this…”
Maestitia considered her options, seemingly uncertain. She would be so easily tempted; this life was behind her. That was what she seemed to claim.
“Dorian, can you dispose of it?”
Dorian frowned. Could she not dispose of it herself? Was this merely an excuse to get rid of him and be alone with her son? Or was it one of her tests? If that was what she wanted…
Dorian grabbed the pendant hesitantly. He gave a thoughtful glance to his beloved and left the scene.
Maestitia invited her son to sit with her.
“Where is your sister?”
She wished to casually talk now? What about Corypheus and the cult?
“She won’t meet you,” Lavellan replied.
“Fair enough,” she said, playing with her hands on the table.
She looked at him, admiring his face. She had a tender smile. Pain. So much pain in her eyes.
“You are his spitting image,” she whispered in a weak voice.
Lavellan frowned. Never had anyone compared him to his father. They looked nothing alike. But perhaps Maestitia meant something else. Perhaps it was more than about physical.
“Da’len,” she softly said. “Tell me about yourself.”
Silently, Lavellan sat in front of her. Tell her about him? Why would she be interested in anything about him?
“Why?”
“I know about the Inquisitor, about his work around Thedas. But I don’t know my son. I don’t know you.”
Lavellan tried to keep his distance. Tried to. But he wanted to talk to his mother. To tell her about himself.
“What do you want to know then?”
“Do you enjoy music?” she asked.
“I do, actually,” he replied. “Father taught me about many instruments. Taught me how to dance, how to sing…”
Maestitia softly laughed.
“I would have expected nothing less. He turned you into a most refined man I see.”
“I love archery,” Lavellan said. “I love the feeling you get when you draw a bow.”
“Assan loved archery more than magic,” Maestitia smiled, remembering her past husband. “Tell me about something he did not pass onto you.”
Lavellan was short of words. His father taught him everything. His father was everything to him. Something about him that did not come from Assan…
“I don’t even know,” the elf confessed.
Maestitia chuckled. She seemed genuinely amused. She did not see the truth behind his answer—or rather, the lack of one. His uncertainty was laughable. It must be a problem entirely foreign to her. She had always known who she was: a slave. Of them, of He… of her.
“You are nothing like him and yet his perfect legacy.”
Lavellan could not help but to be proud. He held his father in such high regard that resembling him could only be the highest compliment. Even so, he could not help but feel that it put his own individuality to the test.
“He taught you well,” she added. “He taught you how not to be him.”
This was the hardest part to understand. What did she mean by that?
“How was he? With you?”
“The loveliest of men,” Maestitia replied with a tender smile. “And the most selfish of them. After all… he did abandon you as well.”
That was so sly of her. That was, after all, Maestitia in her most casual self. She sensed how Lavellan esteemed his father and she attacked him about it. Was she trying to soften her own faults by pointing out Assan’s?
“I’m sure he had his reasons,” Lavellan mumbled.
“But not me?”
A slight tremor betrayed Maestitia’s pain. Her son was able to forgive his father’s selfishness but not hers. She breathed in, steadily.
“Do you share your heart with someone, little one?” Maestitia asked.
A whole different subject. Probably just a mother’s curiosity, and nothing else.
“I do.”
“What is their name?”
Their, not her. She did not assume his sexuality. Or maybe she already knew he enjoyed men’s company. No. Lavellan was getting paranoid.
“I have heard the Inquisitor got involved with an elven apostate,” Maestitia said. “Are the rumors true?”
Well, maybe he was not so paranoid. She had heard about Solas. Of course she had. She had come knowing everything about the Inquisitor Lavellan.
“Not anymore. It is Dorian I share my life with.”
Maestitia’s face hardened. She disapproved. Who was she to disapprove of this relationship? She knew it. She knew her son would reject any criticism of his relationship. So Maestitia fell silent. She knew better than to get on her son’s bad side. Then, she drastically changed the subject.
“Inquisitor Lavellan,” Maestitia whispered. “Even in the darkest streets of Minrathous, your name is a cry of hope for our people.”
Our people… Elves? Even in Minrathous… Lavellan was aware of his influence but he could not expect that his mere existence meant this much.
“You carry his name,” Maestitia said, brushing her son’s face. “Wherever he is, I know he’s proud of you.”
“That is all I can hope for,” he replied.
Maestitia seemed to hesitate. She wished to tell more.
“Assan is sorry. For everything,” she muttered.
Lavellan frowned. What would his father be sorry for? He never did him any wrong.
“Irassal ma ghilas, mala suledin nadas.”
On those words, Maestitia stood up. She gave him a last glance—a last glance to her son. Then she left.
Once again, Lavellan was alone. As always. In the end, once became a pattern. After all, maybe he needed that time alone. He learned next to nothing about the Venatori, discovered so much about himself and yet so little.
As he began to reflect on his own feelings… outside, Dorian and Misuin were talking.
“So… what convinced you to fight back?” Dorian asked.
Manifold and persistent were the resistance movements against the Imperium—never conclusive. Were they slaves, templars, or any individual fighting a battle they could never hope to win. Clay pot against iron pot—it was the powerless against the powerful. And yet, even though hope always seemed lost, new people continued to rise… and to fight.
“The Inquisitor,” Misuin answered without hesitation. “When I heard about him… a Dalish elf in one of the highest positions of an Andrastian organization… nothing is impossible. I know it now.”
An unconscious smile tugged at the corner of Dorian’s lips. He was proud of the good influence his elven lover had even in his homeland.
“When Corypheus is gone… things will begin to change in Tevinter,” Dorian told them.
“And you? I’ve heard about you Dorian Pavus. They say you gave up on us.”
Had he? Perhaps, for a time. When his own father had committed the ultimate betrayal? Yes. Perhaps he did. Perhaps, in that moment, he had lost all hope. Perhaps, in that moment, he truly had abandoned his people.
“I may have,” Dorian admitted. “But my beloved Inquisitor… he’s shaping the world with such conviction… how could I aspire any less?”
Misuin had a kind look upon Dorian as they listened to him rambling about his lover.
“You love him very much, don’t you?”
“More than I ever expected to,” he confessed.
Dorian had not come South in search of love. And even when love had found him, it had not been given freely. It never would be. Dorian had to fight for the man he loved. And he would fight for the land he loved.
“Mercar.”
Maestitia’s voice rang out.
“We are departing.”
Both Tevinters startled. The Senior Enchanter had apparently spoken long enough with her son.
Misuin bade Dorian farewell before heading towards the port to prepare for their departure. As for him, it was time to rejoin his man.
“Dorian,” Maestitia called him as he was about to step inside.
“Yes, my dear?”
“You are not what my son needs or deserves. You would be most lovely to leave him be.”
“With all due respect, Maestitia, I am rather certain your son disagrees.”
“Please, I know you, Dorian,” Maestitia sighed.
Oh, she knew Dorian. Dorian in Minrathous. Dorian and his known reputation. Frivolous and drowning in his excesses. Dorian that would not fight for his deepest feelings.
“Yet you don’t know your son the way I do,” he simply replied. “Send my regards to Tilani.”
And just like this, Dorian disappeared inside. He had stood his ground. Maestitia did not know how to react. Having someone stand up to her was something quite unfamiliar.
Somewhat unsettled, Maestitia stood alone in the street a few seconds. But life had to go on. She breathed in heavily. Minrathous awaited.
Back to the tavern, Dorian stepped inside slowly. Lavellan was sitting alone, his head between his hands.
Dorian took the pendant from his pocket. He did not destroy it. Who could have? Such a powerful item; he could not be tempted by its power… could he? He stared at it. The power of coercion at his fingertips. The resort of the weak mind. Dorian knew better than that.
He put it back to its place as he walked toward Lavellan.
“Are you alright, amatus?” Dorian asked him.
“You know what it is,” Lavellan muttered. “I… I don’t know if I can forget her.”
How could he? The Inquisitor thought the worst his mother did was abandoning him. To discover she intended to enslave him… He would rather not think about it.
“But she’s your friend… I can’t believe I’m saying that…” Aster mumbled. “And if you believe she’s fighting for a better Tevinter, she shall have my support.”
“Amatus,” Dorian sighed, taking his lover’s hands in his own. “We already talked about it and I’ve already told you I’ve been thinking a lot about it since I arrived in the South,” Dorian began. “When I imagined you in the place of all those slaves… It was unbearable. Knowing that could have been your fate… No one deserves that.”
It had taken falling in love with a knife-ear for him to realize… Who could blame him? Dorian was but a human. It was a battle that had never been his. A battle he did not understand, and perhaps never would, no matter how close he thought he had come to understanding it.
In Tevinter, slaves were everywhere and he never questioned it. Here, their absence made him question it. He encountered enslaved people and never moved a finger. Yet, the thought of his beloved one enslaved made him decide to act. Was that not, at the very least, paradoxical?
“It will take time—and blood, no doubt. But I will change how things are in the Imperium.”
“Need I remind you what happened to the last archon who tried to abolish slavery?” Lavellan laughed.
Laughing, that was all he had left.
“I’m not even a magister,” Dorian laughed back. “This kind of change takes time. It is a hard pill to swallow. We must be smart about it.”
Lavellan brushed Dorian’s cheek.
“Thank you, Dorian, for everything,” Lavellan said. “It means a lot.”
“My pleasure, amatus.”
Dorian kissed his hand.
“Where to next?”
“We have a god to defy,” Lavellan replied, holding onto Dorian’s hand.